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Sunday, May 5, 2013

A Suicide Note

Dear
Husband,

When
I first came into this house, I was elated. I was sure that the family that I
had left behind to become the bahu of
this house was really happy at my good luck. I didn’t have any parents, but my
Masterji, who had put so much effort in raising me, and who I give all the
credit for shaping my personality, always made sure that he gave me the best of
everything. A firm believer in quality of character, he knew that character
develops through pain. He stuck with me through all the tough moments in my
life, including the time when I told you how I got stitches all over my body. He
supported me, and had faith that I will one day find my knight in shining armor,
who will take me home and love me to death.

I
remember how you did not come to see me the first time. Your parents came to
our place and told my family that since you did not have anyone specific in mind,
they had taken it upon themselves to find the perfect fit for you. It was
magical how they liked me at the very instant when they first saw me. They said
that they had made their decision, and were sure that they did not need to seek
their son’s approval.

My
Masterji knew that I would make him proud one day. So, he ensured that I had
the best of company. He never let me hang out with those Salman Khan types who
would have tattoos of colorful dragons painted all over their bodies. He taught
me how simplicity is the best attire, and is a mark of class. He would also
talk a great deal about the importance of being fit. He raised me with such
care.

Ours
was an arranged affair, so I thought it would take you time to open up to me.
The initial silence seemed temporary. I kept waiting for the first office party
where you would take me and feel proud in showing me off to your colleagues.
But when the day for the office party arrived, I noticed how it took you no
time in deciding that someone else would be your date. I thought it’s a modern
thing and maybe you’re just not over who I thought to be your ex. But soon I realized
that there were picnics, casual lunches with friends, concerts and many other
events, but I was never a part of any of them.

I
overheard you talking to your sister and telling her that you didn’t like me.
You were planning on throwing me in the bed-box, where you had secretly shoved
all the other things that you hated, including the woolen sweaters that your dadi would knit for you every year. I
was scandalized at first. I could not digest the thought of you doing something
so cruel to me. What were you going to tell your parents when they would ask
you about me? A part of me told me that you were joking.

I
remember clearly how you started making space in your bed-box on a Sunday. I
could not ask you why! I just kept praying that it would be for the blankets
from the recently passed winter season. But then I realized that I had to stop
living in denial and accept my fate. You shoved me in with not even an iota of
guilt on your face. And a whole new chapter from your history opened up in
front of my eyes.

I
was so surprised to see that there were other jeans, just like me, shoved into
the darkness of your bed’s dungeon. They told me how there was only one pair of
jeans that you loved; the same one who I thought was your ex! They told me how
much it hurt them all when you spoke about getting into someone else’s pants.

Why
did you let your parents befool me? Why did you let them believe that they did
not need your approval when they decided to buy a pair of jeans for you? Why
did you give me false hope for months, when you stacked me under your other
trousers in the wardrobe? Why?

I
know that you’ll cook up an excuse when they ask you why you don’t wear me. But
doesn’t it occur to you how it’s so heartless, so mean of you to lie to them
about liking me? They will probably realize it one day, and silently keep their
sorrow from you. But do you realize how your lie has completely ruined my life?
My Masterji, the poor Masterji, who stitched me with such perfection, with such
devotion, will be so shattered to know that his labor bore no fruit.

And
what is it about your stupid Levi’s that you love so much? I’m blue too; just
as dark a blue as her. My stitch is just as orange. Does it hurt you to know
that I come from a family of Koutons? Are you embarrassed of my identity even
when your un-tucked shirt hides my back patch? Or are you embarrassed about the
fact that I address myself as a lady despite being a pair of men’s jeans?

I am
pained to see how you can ask your dad to get you a pair of boxers or briefs
from the market, and wear it every day even if it’s Rupa or Lux. I understand
that a man shares a more intimate relationship with his jeans than with his underwear,
which is merely a slut trying to give you head. I know that a pair of jeans
commands more respect. It is clean in character even when unwashed for a month;
and no matter how much you wash your underwear on a daily basis, it can never
command the same place in your heart.

I’ve
been such a pati-vrata lady. Ek baar pehen ke toh dekhte. Tumhare kadamon
ke neeche aane ko taiyar thi main. I remember when my family dressed me in
bridal clothes of polythene, they told your parents: “Hum aapko apni jeans hi nahi, 50%+40% discount bhi de rahe hain.”
My price tag will tell you that I’m just as valuable as your Levi’s, priced at
no less than two thousand five hundred rupees. And even after accepting a heavy
discount in dowry, you have the cheek to say: Fake discount scheme hai.Faltu
mein bhaao badaaye huye hain local jeans ke! How dare you!

I
have decided to end my life. And it’ll be no one but you to blame for it. I
will shrink my waist by two inches tonight, and will wait for the day when you
open your bed-box to clean out your old mess, look at my body with no sense of
attachment, and then go ahead to try me for the first time. Your guilt will hit
you when you’ll see that I won’t fit you.

14 comments:

Weird. Just weird. I don't know what to comment on this. Not like I am speechless or anything but I see problems at so many levels. :P I think I need to start the work on "I don't really like Sarthak Ahuja" post. Because hate is a strong word. As strong a comment as making the woman protagonist compare herself to jeans (obvious commodification) and be shaped by a man (the Masterji, who's Master?), in order to be "rescued" by a man (knight in shining whatever).

As a feminist herself, I've got to disagree with you here.I'm pretty sure that no woman is being compared to a pair of jeans or being commodified. In fact, if anything, it's the other way around. Also, again I'm pretty sure that a tailor is coloquially called a "Masterji."